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Published: September 25th 2006
Lilies in the market
A copy of Diego Rivera's paintingSo there we were in Xela, exhausted, but bound and determined to make it to that darn Feria . . . (if you haven't already, you probably should read Part 1 first)
We walked the kilometer or so to the place where public transport took folks from town to the fair. And, as always, they made sure the shuttle bus was good and full. I sat on the tire well and Paul got cozy on the floor. We didn’t think much of the discomfort since the fairgrounds is only a couple miles out of town. Again, we weren’t thinking. There was really only one road out to the grounds which the drivers decided to turn into a parking lot by trying to pass one another and squeeze as many cars wide as possible onto the road. The fact that the road just ended and the buses had to do 3-point turns to turn around with passengers heading back into town, also did very little to help the flow of traffic. Our short little ride ended up taking nearly 45 minutes and my legs were fast asleep when the driver finally let us get out. I had asked several times earlier
and he wouldn’t open the door until everyone was getting out. I worked out later, when we were trying to get back to town, that this was probably because folks full-on mob the buses out at the fairgrounds to get a seat back to town. Guatemala public transport is no place for a claustrophobe. And Xela’s annual fair probably should be avoided too.
Holy cow were there a whole heck of a lot of people out there! I kept trying to walk away from the massive crowds of people, but whichever way we went, there were more. They just kept coming. In the end, it was probably a good thing that the crowds freaked me out so much. In trying to avoid them, we ended up stumbling upon the bull ring way on the other side of the grounds. And lo and behold, a bullfight was starting in twenty minutes. And who says things don’t happen for reasons?
We grabbed ourselves some tickets and some plates of beef and tortillas and settled in for the fun and a little break from the crowds . . . or so we thought. Turns out that we’d just arrived early. By
the time the bullfight actually started, I had big, sweaty, drunk Guatemalan cowboys hedging me in from all directions. And it wasn’t just drunk cowboys crowding in to see the show, but men, women, frail grannies, and little bitty ones. And they just kept coming. And somehow, no matter how many entered, there was always a little more room somewhere even it meant dangling one’s legs into the bullring or crouching underneath the bleachers and stealing peeks of the action from between the wooden slats.
And I must say it was a pretty good show. But most of the fun took place when the professional matadors were taking a break. There were intrepid young men who attempted to ride the bulls, and even with both hands hanging on for dear life, it didn’t look so easy (I wonder how you would have done, Jenny!). And then one of the drunk cowboys near me, jumped into the ring and tried with very little success to lasso a bull. And there were a couple of rodeo clowns who did all sorts of crazy stuff with bulls including tying a rope to the tail of one rather worn out bull and playing
jump rope, riding the bull while sitting backwards on the bull’s head and hanging on to the horns, and provoking the bulls to ram their padded behinds and send them sailing into the air. These people are crazy.
The actual bull fighting seemed pretty amateur—one of the matadors was easily 50 with a sizeable gut hanging over his tight toreador pants—and I don’t even want to talk about the socks they stuffed down there. And there’s nowhere near the same amount of ceremony as the Mexican bull fight I saw. Mostly they just fling their capes around a bit and tire out the bull until they feel daring enough to do something really stupid like bow dramatically on one knee with their back five feet from an angry bull. At least they don’t actually kill the bulls in Guatemala, like they do in other countries. But to be honest, I think the bulls would rather be doing something different.
When we’d seen all we could take, we wandered the fairgrounds amusing ourselves by watching folks trying to win prizes at some of the carnival games, and by giggling at the drunks stumbling around and passing out on the
grass. But most of all we just wanted to try out some Guatemalan fair food. And I’m happy to report, it’s pretty much like all the other fair food I’ve eaten: full of fat and sugar and absolutely delicious. Our favorite was a massive bowl of strawberries and bananas swimming in chocolate, a yummy berry syrup, and lots of cream. We ate until our tummies hurt and then stumbled back to the chaos of the buses to take us home to bed exhausted from such a long, crazy day.
The next day we were off again. This time it was to Chichicastenango (Chichi) to see their famous Sunday market. Of course, this meant more public transportation fun of being squeezed three and a half to a seat and praying to the gods that the bus doesn’t collide head on with something while blindly passing on a corner.
We arrived early enough on Saturday to take a hike up one of the nearby hills where some of the local folk perform elaborate ceremonies to Pascual Abaj, a large black stone with supposed human features (I had trouble making them out). Up on the hill a young couple gave us
permission to observe the ritual that a shaman was performing for them. While I didn’t get nosy and ask what exactly they were praying for, I can tell you that it must have cost a pretty penny. The shaman made a circle on the floor and then proceeded to fill the circle with a beautiful mosaic of layers of chocolate, candles, incense, sugar, and pastries. When he was finished he set the mound of goodies on fire and chanted at length to Pascual Abaj. I’m not sure what he was saying, but it sure did smell good!
A Mayan woman offered to explain some of the ceremonies that are performed, and we were happy to know more. It turns out that folks come to pray to Pascual Abaj, a Mayan god, for all sorts of reasons. Some pray for health or for money or for good luck in finding a sober husband (from the several fellows we witnessed passed out on the streets during the time we were in Chichi, the girls are probably better off praying for money). But, the funniest ceremony we learned about was one that young couples do before marrying. They come up the hill
with all sorts of goodies to give to the god, including two very important chickens. At some point in the ceremony, the shaman cuts off the heads of the chicken and releases their headless bodies to dance around. Now here’s the catch. If even one of the chickens doesn’t dance and move around right, that’s it. The gods have shown their displeasure with the match, and the wedding is off. Paul says that’s probably why there are so many drunks in the streets.
We hit the market bright and early the next morning which was a really good thing. Things were still relatively peaceful and the throngs of tourists that shuttle into the city around ten o’clock hadn’t arrived yet so we could actually walk peacefully through the market’s tiny alleys (instead of the pushing and cramming that would come later). We drank fresh squeezed orange juice and ate delicious tropical fruits while taking photos of the colorful merchandise and watching as folks hauled in their wares and set up their stalls. The morning was starting out really nicely.
But then all the mobs of people came, and the market took a serious negative turn. People got a
bit vicious in the narrow walkways between the stalls (one little old lady shoved me so hard that I would have fallen straight into a little coffee bush for sale if Paul hadn’t grabbed me) and the bartering got seriously intense and not so much fun.
It was in one of these crushes, where Paul was pushed from the front and then from the back, and the next thing we knew his wallet had been pulled from his pants pocket. Paul looked around to see if he couldn’t spot the nasty culprit, but there were just people everywhere. Instead, we found some police and soldiers with big guns who came with us back to the scene of the crime to see if they couldn’t intimidate anyone into fessing up. We had a quick look around and I noticed a large dumpster like thing which to me seemed like the perfect place to get rid of any evidence. I searched through some lettuce and trash and lo and behold came up with two wallets with the money gone but everything else still intact. Unfortunately, neither were Paul’s.
After a quick trip to the police station to file a report,
Paul and I decided we’d had quite enough of Chichi’s market and found a shuttle on to Antigua where we’d be spending a week studying Spanish and staying with the same wonderful family I lived with six years ago. And it was so good to catch up with Rolando and Silvia again and to meet their two beautiful and very funny little girls, Alejandra (4 ½) and Sofia (3). It was also fabulous to have a bit of our own space and a routine for the week.
I took Paul to school on Monday morning to help him get registered and was elated to find that Sabina, my teacher from before, still taught at the school. I decided to bag the volunteering idea which wasn’t looking too promising anyway and signed up for a week of classes with Sabina (who has also had a little girl since I was last here and who pestered me incessantly about when Paul and I were going to have kids).
So everyday Paul and I woke up at seven, had breakfast with the family, and went to the school for classes at eight. At twelve, I was finished and went home to
play with the little girls and hang out with Silvia until Paul and Rolando (who also teaches at the school) finished at one. Then we all ate lunch together, and in the afternoons, Paul and I would go off exploring Antigua or participate in one of the schools activities like visiting a macadamia nut farm or bike riding to a coffee plantation. Then at sevenish we’d eat dinner, and Paul would study while I played with the girls some more and distracted him.
All the while throughout the day, Silvia (who is six months pregnant) and the four women they employ work tirelessly keeping the house clean and the small store they run tended. But mostly, they slave endlessly making hundreds of homemade tortillas. And this is a big process. It starts each night when they put massive cauldrons of corn on the fire to boil. Then early in the morning, they take a big barrel of the corn by hand truck to the grinders down the road. Then they mix the corn paste with a little water and lime and from about nine until three the house is filled with the sounds of the women patting little balls
of corn paste into tortillas and the smells of the tortillas cooking on a massive skillet in the store. And what do they get for all this hard work? About 13 cents for every five they sell. And even though the line is out the door for much of the day, and even though they sell on average about a thousand a day, this only adds up to just under $27. It sure makes our lives seem pretty easy.
Antigua has been such a great place for us to chill out in for a week. It’s quite a popular place for expats, and as such has all sorts of conveniences and comforts that are hard to find in other parts of Central America. We ate some fantastic food, (Paul even had Irish stew at a pub in town), explored the ruins of some of the old monasteries (which had been destroyed in the various floods, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions that have plagued the town over the centuries), and wandered the pretty cobblestone roads admiring the colorfully painted store fronts and elaborately carved wooden doors.
Really the only bad part of Antigua was that I had a run in
with a pretty nasty bug my second night there. I started vomiting at eight in the evening, the diarrhea kicked in a few hours later, and they both continued near on constantly until about five in the morning. I was wrecked. My back and stomach muscles ached and I was so exhausted and weak that I spent the whole next day in bed. Not fun. Thank god it only lasted one night, and I was feeling much better soon.
Especially since, on Saturday we had a pretty active day hiking up to Volcan Pacaya, one of the most active volcanoes in Central America. I made this trip when I was here before, and at that time we climbed all the way to the summit and were able to look into the crater to catch glimpses of the bubbling lava below. There’s been a bit more action as of lately. In April there were some tremors which caused part of the cone to crumble down the mountain and opened up several new craters. One of these craters has been churning out rivers of lava ever since. Paul and I just had to take a look.
After a two hour
hike pretty much straight up, we reached the ridge from where folks used to begin the ascent to the summit. Now the ridge makes a nice place to sit and admire the hot rivers of lava that flow below. And it is absolutely thrilling to watch the lava slowly flow across the plateau of volcanic rock that has been forming since April. When the lava (at 2000 degrees Celsius, according to our guide) comes to a larger rock, some of the most amazing crinkly sounds are emitted as the molten rock pushes against the rock while cooking and liquidizing it and adding it to its flow. I could have sat there all day and watched as the lava slowly creeps out from one rock until a small tributary forms, then for no reason at all it may cool and stop flowing and another one will form somewhere else. It’s no wonder lava lamps were such an amazing success; this stuff is mesmerizing.
Now tomorrow, we’re off again. We catch another tourist shuttle at four in the morning (gulp) for Copan, Honduras to see some ruins that I’ve been hankering to get my eyes on. Then it’s off to La
Ceiba to explore the Picos Bonitos National Park and to the Bay Islands so Paul can do some scuba diving. I think I might keep to the beaches more this time.
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barman
non-member comment
crazy drivers
the bus drivers there sound similiar to the ones in africa, aye paul? or maybe that was the malawi gold!!. rock on guys - trip sounds awesome.